To Wash a Sin
by Wrong Number
Summary: They used to say: Life is like a sword. Some people use their lives to protect the ones they love. Some people use theirs to seek revenge, power, domination. But when it comes down to it, how would you use your sword?
1. Prologue

Wao! I totally got inspiration from _Oh, Porings!_ to write this. YES, that's right! Even though NO ONE KNOWS ME FROM THERE, I still stalk around random forums to get writing inspiration from weird people I don't know. 

If you don't know what's _Oh, Porings!_ then just look at some of the profiles of some people. (Oh yeah, I stalk profiles too. How cool am I?)

The again maybe it's the name that caught my attention.

Can't you tell? Poringz r awsum.

Tis' a story about… uhh… a bad guy? Hell, I dunno. I wrote this with absolutely _no_ plot in mind. I blame starbucks. (Seriously their coffee sometimes causes major writer's block.)

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**To Wash a Sin**

**Prologue**

A room.

A single table is visible. Its shadow flickered against the light of a nearby torch, hooked rather dangerously against an iron curvature attached to the undusted gray wall. The lone sentinel of light gave no warmth. Only sight.

A figure stirred. And the light flickered once again, grafting the silhouette of lone person resting his head on the table, forearm against his forehead. A black cloak spilled from his shoulders; seemingly merging with the darkness that the torch had failed to permeate. It lay there, unmoving. Resenting the light.

His was arm extended across the table; his gloved fingers were curved as if grasping a sword. He wore armguards, baring curious symbol embossed across its ebony chainmail. His hair was a tinge of dark auburn slashed with black, barely noticeable in the darkness. He was tired, but only for tonight.

The torch flickered once again. His eyes opened, unfocused and bleary, and for an instant, he seemed almost confused, but only for an instant.

Then, a knock on the door pierced through the silence of the room, and a man's voice called out, "My lord, are you in here?" There was not a trace of respect in that voice, but merely begrudging acceptance.

Repressing a sigh, the figure looked up slowly, staring silently at the shadowed wall in front of him. With sudden decisiveness, he stood and turned to face the closed wooden door. "What is it?" He said, coldly.

"The men we captured claimed that they knew nothing about it," came the reply. "They… they refused to speak any more." The voice trembled a little, only a little. At least the fear was still there.

"And…?" The lord knew that there was more.

"And we found the chest… the artifact that was supposed to be inside it is… gone."

The figure turned his head and faced the floor. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the ground silently. Another setback. This is getting really old, really fast. Something needs to be done.

"My lord…?" The voice sounded anxious… almost… hopeful? "My lord, what should we do with the-"

"Kill them." He said, emotionlessly. It wouldn't be the first time someone had died under his command.

"As you wish, my lord." The voice once again assumed its impertinent tone. "As you wish." And he was gone.

The figure continued to stare at the ground. The torch was flickering once more, casting his shadow against the door. He looked up and saw his own shadowy figure, shifting and dancing with the door as a screen. He walked back and reached out in the corner of the table, and retrieved an extremely fatal-looking longsword. Sheathing _Executioner_ behind his shoulder, he paused only to look at a letter he had been holding on for the past year. It was still clean, with perhaps a few creases at the corners. On the envelope, written in clear and neat handwriting were the words _"To Archaeon, From Alliel"._

He smiled slightly. Perhaps once he got his job done, he and _Executioner_ would pay Prontera a long overdue visit.

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Intense!?

Gawd, I never did have any luck writing baddies. Or baddie-wannabes. I usually do a good guy and screw him up with random complications that don't really have a real evil dude behind it. I'm just not used to it.

Er, it's a prologue, which is why it's so damn short. Does that count?

Stereotype!?


	2. Preludes and Revelations

Okay, okay, okay, so the prologue was short and weirdlike.

Still, I'm trying so so so hard…

Ah whatever, it's a just a mess of words. It's not in chronological order too, btw. I was thinking of messing it all up for, uh, um, imagination?

Meh. Whatever.

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**To Wash a Sin**

**Preludes and Revelations**

_The top half of his spear spun in mid-air and landed before skidding across the marble floors. It was almost dead silent, only the sound of the victim could be heard. His breaths were coming out in desperate, weary gasps. He was trying to explain, but the words only spluttered out incoherently as his trembling hands continued to maintain a firm grip on the broken shaft of his pike. His other hand held on to a buckler, though the numerous scratches and dents on its surface revealed that it could only take so much more punishment._

_Archaeon stared contemptuously at the fallen knight before him. His eyes narrowed as he encircled the knight, right hand loosely gripping on his own claymore._

_"And you planned on keeping quiet about this the whole time." Archaeon said, abruptly. It was a statement, not a question. "What kind of knight are you?" Still staring at him, he drew a ragged breath, "It makes no sense. None." He gazed at the ceiling, "None…"_

_The knight before him shifted cautiously. "It's not my decision Arc…" he said, pleadingly, "It was an order. There… there wasn't anything I could do… or it would've been_ both _our heads." He shook his head slowly, "I didn't make that choice. I HAD no choice." His voice was trembling slightly. "I… please... just put down the sword Arc… we can settle this…"_

_"No choice?" Archaeon's eyes seethed with fury. "_No choice_? A simple 'no' would have been enough, _friend_. You're supposed to be a knight… and a knight that protects others. You aren't a knight." He sneered. "You would rather sell everyone out for your own – miserable – _life_!" In blind rage, he raised his claymore with one arm and violently swung it down on the knight like an axe._

_The knight before him had barely managed to raise his buckler up before the claymore crashed into it with a deafening clang. The force of that blow numbed his arm and caused him to stumble backwards. However, Archaeon refused to relent, swinging again and again, blow after blow. Each time the knight desperately blocked it; each time the building shook as the hammering became more brutal with each strike. Eventually, the weary knight dropped his buckler, left arm hanging limply by his side. Dissatisfied, Archaeon gave him an unceremonious push in the chest with the sole of his boot, causing him to collapse backwards._

_Archaeon stood over the knight and stared at him, as he lay sprawled on his back, eyes wide with fear and regret. Without a word, he grabbed the wretched man by the front of his chainmail, revealing a rosary hanging loosely on his neck. Frowning, he glared at the cross, then back at the knight. "You don't deserve even deserve _His_ mercy." He whispered, softly._

_Dragging the knight to the front of the dais, Archaeon threw him against a wall. The knight's back hit the stone surface with a dull _thud_ before sliding down against the wall. The knight could only look down at the carpeted floor, eyes unfocused, breathing heavily. Blood caked the side of his head and his left arm was still nerveless, he was defeated. Utterly._

_Gripping tightly on his claymore, Archaeon looked up and gazed defiantly at the massive mahogany cross just above him. Raising an eyebrow at it, he steadied his sword._

_The next day, a High Priest discovered a knight, grotesquely impaled through the chest by an immaculately polished claymore against the church's north wall._

Archaeon's eyes snapped open. Glancing left and right, he frowned as his ears caught the unmistakable sound of… _birds_? _It's just that dream again_, he thought, sourly. Sitting upright, he placed the palm of his hand against his forehead. After a few minutes, he reached for the window behind him and supported himself up. Glancing at the window, he caught a glimpse of himself through the reflection of the glass. His hair was in a complete mess.

Sighing, he walked over to a long object lying on the table at the corner of the room. It was wrapped with black cloth. He was in the _Merchant's Smith_ Inn in Aldeberan. Stretching, he unconsciously noticed that his body felt a great deal lighter without any armour weighing him down. His glanced down at the plain beige cotton shirt and brown pants he was wearing and smiled to himself. Certainly was a big change.

Taking the black object from the table, he left his room and headed to first floor. It was about daybreak and sunbeams were gleaming in through the windows. The innkeeper was already up and busy wiping the counter. He wore a clean white apron over his shirt and was remarkably muscular. This was probably because he used to be a blacksmith; and he still has a weapons' shop at the back off the inn.

"Hey there, customer," he greeted Archaeon cheerfully. "Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you." Archaeon replied. "Er… here's the money for staying." He placed two large coins of zeny on the counter.

"Wow, that's too much, son," the graying innkeeper said, smiling. "The fee's only a hundred zeny. Here, take it back." He pushed one of the coins back at him.

"Oh… thanks." Archaeon said, slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry. Not used to staying at inns." He gave the innkeeper a small smile.

"No problem," he laughed. Glancing at the object on his customer's back, he added, "by the way, nice sword."

"What?" Archaeon said, startled.

"That thing on your back," the ex-blacksmith said, "It's a sword isn't it?"

"Uh… yeah," Archaeon answered, almost unwillingly. "How… how did you know?"

The innkeeper grinned and tapped his temples with two of his fingers. "Experience," he said, grinning. "Keep good care of it, though," he added, "good swords tend to get out of control if you let it."

"I'll… keep that in mind." Archaeon replied, impressed. "Thank you." Before leaving the inn, he turned back and asked the innkeeper, "Any ships setting out for Prontera today?"

"Probably not," the ex-blacksmith replied, "Something's going on down there. Heard some rumours though, about some dark guild trying to take over Izlude or something. Guilds," he snorted, "always off with their conquering this, and conquering that. I'm just glad we don't get much of that here, you know what I mean?" He looked up.

The ex-knight was gone.

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Secks?


	3. Get Out

'Ello.

Yeah, this story's soo messy. Bleaargh

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**Get Out**

_Glast Heim._

_"You be careful, lad," the white-haired woodcutter said. "That place isn't safe, even for a knight. Especially for one braving it alone." There was genuine sincerity in his voice as he continued, "I'm know too old to stop you, but you best remember what I said."_

An arched doorway loomed before him; beyond it revealed a dark and foreboding courtyard within its confines. Even from the outside he could make out the ruin of the once-majestic castle almost too clearly. The stone floor tiles seemed to be ripped from the ground by some sort of enraged beast, and the plants that had once graced the garden were now ripped, mangled and strewn across the upturned soil like corpses.

"_The shortest way would be past the kobold area," said the stony-faced guard. "Keep going west until you reach the big hill, then head north to the place with the petite dragons. Go west past the river; there should be a ford where you can cross, if it's still there. The place you're looking for is just across the river." The guard eyed him suspiciously, "what's your business there, anyway?"_

He ventured cautiously, through the crumbling entrance and into the courtyard. It was like entering a bubble; no sooner had he stepped inside, he became uncomfortably aware of the sudden eerie silence that engulfed him, as if the outside world had never existed. Looking back, he could only vaguely make out the greenish fields through the fog that had suddenly enveloped around him. Placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, he forced himself to take another step further.

"_Um, I don't know," the young mage girl regarded him doubtfully, "I was always told to stay away from that place. Besides, I heard stories that it was haunted by zombies and stuff." Glancing left and right, she continued, "maybe you should ask the town guards, I mean, they should to know where it is, right?" _

Carefully, he walked past the dried up fountains and petrified bushes, taking note of every little movement in his way, if any. Raised platforms that were fractured by the sides greeted him often, as did shuddering walls with their crumbling crenellations. The trees stood there, motionless with no wind to guide them, their branches, though still filled with leaves, seemed dead on the inside; untended ivy crept around the stone statues, mostly headless or lacking certain limbs, towering over him ominously. Suppressing a shudder, he dimly noticed that place seemed darker the deeper he went.

"_Glast Heim?" The young man seemed shocked that he even uttered the name of that place. "Now why would you even _think_ of going there? The last time a group of knights went in, only _one_ made it out alive. You're just one man, you can't be serious of about going into that dangerous place alone!"_

And yet, the only thing that was making him nervous was the fact that he was so _alone. _There was absolutely no sound in the air, save for the soft pressing sound of his boots on the stone floor and his breath. The entire castle seemed devoid of any movement or sound, be it mundane or not. His hand was now gripping so tightly on the hilt of his sword that it almost hurt. But his uncertainty of the situation had numbed that pain. He soon became aware that he was unable to see the sky, and that the sunlight was only barely creeping through the thick swirling clouds above him. Everything seemed so out of place here.

"_One portal to Geffen? Hold on," the blue-haired kafra smiled at him as he fished out the necessary zeny from his money pouch. "Big mission?" She asked, conversationally, "Good luck to you, then. And when you get back, maybe we can have lunch together?" She said, teasingly._

Finally, he seemed to have reached the entrance of the inner keep itself. There was an massive circular fountain at the center, but the statue that had been in the middle was now crushed and deformed beyond recognition, and the carvings that had once adorned fountain's walls were now scratched and crumbling. Water had long ceased to flow from it. The entrance was only a few feet ahead, leading up from the derelict stone steps. At the end stood two wooden double doors that were slightly open, revealing a small gap that seemed completely immersed in darkness.

"_I'm sorry, there wasn't anything I could do," the knight put a consoling hand on his shoulder. "Our team got separated, I tried looking for them, but they seemed to have vanished or something. No bodies, nothing." He gazed at the floor, "I shouldn't have been able to leave that place alive…" his voice was full of regret, and something else… _guilt?_ "Maybe they're still alive. Who knows, they could be still in there trying to get out," he added, hopefully._

Then he heard it. A sound; coming from the inside of the keep, just beyond the double doors. It was faint at first, but it got clearer. He strained his ears, and confirmed the unmistakably hoarse sound of… _breathing?_

"_No!" the knight burst out, immediately. "Are you insane!? You can't go there! You have no idea what it's like! You'd be much better of just killing yourself rather than setting foot in that place!" He shook his head and gazed at the floor again, "the things you'd see there… you can't…" he trailed off, absently._

Breathing?

He frowned. Glast Heim wasn't known for things that could breathe. The only other possible explanation would be some fool adventurer trying to scrounge for treasure in this accursed place and was now in serious danger. He unsheathed his sword, a simple two-handed weapon, and advanced toward the rasping sound. Carefully, he creaked open the door and sidestepped into the hall.

It was exceptionally dark; it was only through the frail light coming from outside the stained glass windows could he make out the frayed red carpet extending from the entrance to the end of the hallway. He could hear the breathing much clearer now. It came from the middle of the hall, from the indistinct figure kneeling down on the carpet, directly underneath the chandelier that hung precariously on the raised roof. His breathing was strained and harsh, dry like petrified wood.

Venturing closer, sword in hand, he approached the figure. However, before he could reach him, he caught sight of the figure's familiar chestnut-brown hair and the scratched, dented, but unmistakable armour of the Proterian crusaders.

He could not believe his eyes. "Alex?"

The brown-haired crusader looked up. His weary eyes abruptly widened and he tried to scramble backwards, but failed to do so. "… Archaeon…?" He spoke as if finding his voice for the first time, "… what… what are you doing here?" His voice had a parched, rasping quality in it.

"I'm getting you out of here." Archaeon said, sheathing his sword. "How the hell did you survive a month in this place?" He took a step forward.

"_Don't!" _Alex cried out. "… Don't … come any closer. Stay awa- _argh!" _He clutched his stomach. "Stay… away."

"What?" Archaeon said, confused. "You need help _now_, I've got some potions, they should hel-"

"_Listen!" _Alex interrupted. "You can't … do... anything." The crusader raised his head and gazed at Archaeon. "Get out of here _now_." There was a rising urgency in the pitch his voice, and the look in his eyes was beginning to look anything but sane.

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